A PEN-PICTUR’

Most ontimely old man yit! ‘ Pear-like sometimes he jest tries His fool-self, and takes the bitt In his teeth and jest de-fies All perpryties!— Lay and swet Doin’ nothin’ — only jest Sorto’ speckillatun on Whare old summertimes is gone, And‘ bout things that he loved best When a youngster! Heerd him say Springtimes made him thataway — Speshully on Sund'ys — when Sun shines out and in again, And the lonesome old hens they Git off under the old kern- Bushes, and in deep concern Talk-like to theyrselvs, and scratch Kindo’ absunt-minded, jest Like theyr thoughts was fur away In some neghbor's gyarden-patch Folks has tended keerfullest! Heerd the old man dwell on these Idys time and time again!— Heerd him claim that orchurd-trees Bloomin’, put the mischief in His old hart sometimes that bad And owdacious that he “had To break loose someway,” says he, “Ornry as I ust to be!”

Heerd him say one time — when I Was a sorto’ standin’ by, And the air so still and clear, Heerd the bell fer church clean here!— Said: “Ef I could climb and set On the old three-cornerd rail Old home-place, nigh Maryette’, Swop my soul off, hide and tale!” And-sir! blame ef tear and laugh Did n't ketch him half and half! “Oh!” he says, “to wake and be Bare-foot, in the airly dawn In the pastur’!— thare,” says he, “Standin’ whare the cow's slep’ on The cold, dewy grass that's got Print of her jest steamy hot Fer to warm a feller's heels In a while!— How good it feels! Sund'y!— Country!— Morning!— Hear Nothin’ but the silunce — see Nothin’ but green woods and clear Skies and unwrit poetry By the acre!... Oh!” says he, “What's this voice of mine?— to seek To speak out, and yit can n't speak!

“Think!— the lazyest of days” — Takin’ his contrairyest leap, He went on,— “git up, er sleep — Er whilse feedin’, watch the haze Dancin’‘ crost the wheat,— and keep My pipe goin’ laisurely — Puff and whiff as pleases me,— Er I'll leave a trail of smoke Through the house!— no one'll say ‘ Throw that nasty thing away!’ ‘ Pear-like nothin’ sacerd's broke, Goin’ bare-foot ef I chuse!— I have fiddled;— and dug bait And went fishin’;— pitched hoss-shoes — Whare they could n't see us from The main road.— And I've beat some. I've set round and had my joke With the thrashers at the barn — And I've swopped‘ em yarn fer yarn!— Er I've he'pped the childern poke Fer hens’ - nests — agged on a match ‘ Twixt the boys, to watch‘ em scratch And paw round and rip and tare, And bust buttons and pull hair To theyr rompin’ harts’ content — And me jest a-settin’ thare Hatchin’ out more devilment!

“What you s'pose now ort to be Done with sich a man?” says he — “Sich a fool-old-man as me!”